


False Start

by Thorne



Category: Sports RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-19
Updated: 2010-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorne/pseuds/Thorne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brooke wakes up and knows she's about to have her heart broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	False Start

Brooke suddenly wakes up from a sound sleep on a beautiful morning, opens her eyes, and has a horrible flash of intuition that she is going to have her heart broken-- _again_\-- by the end of today.

She thinks it over while lying in bed, tries to laugh it off, but gives up. She doesn't burst out sobbing because that's not her type of thing, but she does let herself hit the snooze button on the alarm three times when it goes off, and to feel very sorry for herself when she gets dressed. It was a beautiful morning when she woke up and it promises to be a beautiful day as well, aside from imminent dump-and-rejection vibes. Brooke thinks that this conviction that her Olympic fling is about to be over may seem overly pessimistic, but it's hard to be optimistic all the time. Lord knows she tries. She's had to, scrambling for what seems like her whole life to make it to where she is, to hold on against being replaced by the younger swimmers, to just _place_, let alone get some recognition.

Her swimming events are finished but the Olympics are by no means over. Brooke takes stock of what she's come out of Athens with: one silver medal, three days of breathless hope, one day of horrid disappointment, and a perpetual clause in media reports as "a member of the gold medal winning medley relay team." But not actually on that team, no. Not when it counted, anyway. And all of these have left her stoked or crushed respectively, but they're not what make Brooke think she's going to get her heart broken. Because she also finished out the Olympics with a number of bouts (in double digits, no less) of the most mind-blowing sex she's had in a while.

With Inge de Bruijin.

And it's been two days since she last saw Inge, and since the Olympics are going to be over quite soon, Brooke knows a rejection or dumping of some type is fast-approaching, because isn't that how it's always worked out and the conspiring fates against her seem nothing if but hung up on tradition.

…besides, Inge is still talking animatedly to Amanda Beard about fifty metres away which surely cannot mean anything good. Brooke can't quite see both of them, as people keep passing back and forth through her line of vision as well as coming out from behind her, but she stays grimly in her spot under the awning of the internet café. She isn't lurking; she isn't stalking; she's just waiting. Patiently. She can wait here and torture herself as long as it takes.

Take _that_, she thinks, and wonders if she means it toward Amanda or herself.

Across the street, Inge tosses her hair. And of course that just brings up the memories of two nights before, Inge stepping towards her in the bathroom while wound up in a towel, the white of it a startling line against tan skin as it tucked across her breasts. She had been fresh out of the shower; the towel dipped teasingly lower until it twisted around her legs in a long sinuous tail, her hair spread out in a wet, dark-gold fan over her shoulders and down her back. It held a curl even while wet.

Her own hair is boy-short, and nowhere near as pretty. She tugs at her bangs and thinks suddenly, irritably, of shaving it all off. Maybe she can ask Grant and Michael for tips.

Brooke remembers kneeling, tugging the towel until it pooled around Inge's feet, and then running her hands up the line of Inge's calves to the softest skin on the inside of her thighs. The shower curtain threw a faint green tinge on everything; she used some kind of body wash that smelled like apples; and when Brooke looked up at all that gold and cream touched with just a little green, it made her think of mermaids. Up a little higher, to the whorl of navel (she had thought of seashells,) down again to comb her fingers through a damp thatch of hair that was just a slightly darker shade of gold. Then lower. She followed her fingers with her mouth and breathed in salt and dampness, like the smell of rock pools at low tide. And it was no effort at all to find something that was a little _more_ damp, a little more slick, murmuring idiot things about mermaids and thinking about how the bathroom door is open and any of Inge's housemates could come in, the shades don't hide the windows. And the afternoon just spills golden light all over the room, and she had felt suffused with it, besotted, drunk on sun and the smell of Inge's skin and the sounds Inge made as she laughed and murmured right back in Dutch--

\--Someone coming out of the internet café jostles past her and the memory comes crashing down. Probably for the best, as it would not do to have a heart attack right in the street. And besides, she's supposed to get her heart broken today.

She checks again. Inge is laughing. It's probably just a polite laugh. So of course, that means that the pleasant expression on Inge's face is no more than the same pleasant smile that everyone else gets, press and officials alike. Surely, it has nothing to do with the fact that Amanda is wearing the tightest of shirts that expose her (disgustingly toned) abdomen, and that her legs are long and tan, and that she's resting one manicured hand on Inge's shoulder. _Damn_. She wonders if she'd have to forfeit her medal for one good chance to corner Amanda with a kickboard and a grudge and no witnesses.

"Chook?"

Normally Brooke quite enjoys talking to Grant and never wishes him to rack off right sharp but this timing of his is particularly inconvenient, and should possibly be attributed to the fact that fate has it in for her and is trying to drive her insane.

"Hacky." Her neck feels briefly rubbery and too-stretched from snapping it away from watching Inge. He grins at her, and she can't help but smile back. They bump fists, hips, and do the little handshake that they worked out as a joke over the pre-Olympic training in Sindelfingen. Grant's one of her favorite people, actually; he understands how it feels to be constantly coming in second sometimes.

"What's up?" he asks after they've gone through their routine. "Looking for someone?"

"Eh. Just relaxing." She gives him her best convincing grin; it's probably not as convincing as she'd like because he frowns and looks as though he's going to follow where her line of vision was just a second ago and she speaks quickly to keep his eyes on her. "Just. You know. I slept funny. I think."

"Slept funny?" He looks slightly concerned, dammit, why are there nice people in the world? "No bad dreams, I hope?"

"Bit of a cramp." Now his eyes are too fixed on her, assessing possible injury. Think, think-- back, leg, neck? "I must have just slept funny, my mattress is a bit lumpy, are _you_ looking for anyone because I thought I saw Michael and Giaan about."

"You've got a cramp?" Oh dammit, he's not going to give up. Best to pick something, her neck should work. She puts a hand on her nape and tries to make the proper degree of wince that indicates discomfort but nothing so severe as to keep him asking about it or worse, mention it to Elka.

"Just a little. No worries."

"Have you spoken to Thommo? Or seen one of the trainers?" He gestures at her neck. "Think of FINA, and all that. And there's the Speedo bash coming up, don't want you skipping the party."

"I'll probably do that later, I'm sure it's going to feel better soon, really just a little cramp." She punches his arm lightly. "Where are you off to?"

"I'm gonna get a bite to eat. Want to come?"

"Oh, I'll drop by later. I need to. Shower. Hot water, you know. Probably will relax the muscles."

"Cheerio, then."

He lopes off. And by the time Brooke has waved him off, both Inge and Amanda are long gone. Possibly together, there's no knowing. They could have gone separately. For all she knows, they were discussing nothing more innocuous than the latest Speedo togs, about how they fit, about the latest modeling show. Maybe about how they should model the latest togs for each other in more privacy. Maybe about how they should skip the modeling and go straight to taking them off. Oh, _hell_.

It doesn't have the same brilliance of her sudden morning epiphany, but Brooke is rather certain now that she hates everyone. And also that Inge mentioned always eating lunch at the same time, but that Brooke will have to wait about half an hour to give Grant a head start so she won't accidentally have him asking about her neck again. She'll have to hold on.

And possibly, to dunk her head underwater. Repeatedly.

***

"Brooke!"

Inge is glowing with sun and smiles, and _her_ hair is damp and curling in flyaway tendrils around her temples. It wasn't wet earlier. What can be gotten up to in an hour that requires a shower? Brooke tries not to think of this, and fails completely.

"Aren't you going to sit down?" Inge indicates the seat across from her. "Today I am adventurous, today I try only Greek foods." Even in a tank top and track-pants, Inge looks as unruffled and poised as if she's at a five star restaurant instead of a cafeteria filled with the smells and sounds of both food and athletes from all over the world. Most of the athletes here look as though they'd be tossed out of a five star restaurant on their arses; there is a distinct majority of flip-flops and cutoffs.

"They're not bad," Brooke says. Secretly, she wishes for steak, something bloody that she could sink her teeth into.

Inge sips from her glass, unfolds her paper napkin, and pauses. "Are you going to get food or are you not hungry right now?"

Food. Oh yes, that was what she came in here for. "Right, right," Brooke mutters. "Hang on a tick, I'll be right back."

"Are you all right?" Inge asks. "You seem tired."

"I'm fine. I'll just. Just be getting lunch now." Brooke scoots her chair back with a squealing noise and makes a hasty exit to the food lines before she can embarrass herself any further, or rather, before she can embarrass herself in front of Inge further. Leaving will allow her to embarrass in front of Inge _and_ everyone else in the cafeteria. Also, Inge keeps a busy schedule and could probably use a few minutes grace time to properly work out the last bits and wordings of the "It's-not-you-well-yes-it-is-you" turndown speech.

There's a line at nearly every food counter. She wonders if she should go for the longest one, to put off the inevitable, but she might as well get it over with. Brooke gets into the closest line, finds out it's for Mexican food which doesn't really appeal to her right now-- who ever heard of getting rejected over a burrito?-- but it'll do. She picks and chooses moodily among what seems like five different varieties of rice with things in it, glares at the pre-packaged salads, thinks _fuck it_, and deliberately grabs the biggest, gooiest, most heart-attack-inducing piece of chocolate cake that she can find.

Back at the table, Inge has waited for her, and only begins to eat when Brooke has settled herself across the table. They eat in silence, Brooke stabbing moodily at whatever it is she has and thinking of ways to avoid everyone else in the field of swimming for the rest of her life. Finally, she puts her fork and knife down when she realizes that if asked what she's been eating for the last ten minutes, she would have no idea of what to say. They come down with a little more force than she expects and the clatter causes Inge to stop fussing over her drink and look over.

"Look," Brooke says, and then realizes with mild dismay that she has prepared nothing to follow that.

Inge looks at her quizzically. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm sure you have a lot of important things to do and I don't want to bother you but if you could get around to rejecting me wouldn't that be easier on both of us?"

And Australia touches out Netherlands to the wall, Brooke thinks idiotically, as Inge's eyes widen in surprise-- her eyes are very blue-- for a bare instant before her face snaps back-- no, not back, but it changes to a neutrally pleasant expression that's somehow different than her pleasant face from before.

Inge picks up a package of sugar from the side of her plate, tears the top off carefully and precisely, and adds it to her glass of iced tea. She stirs it a little. "Perhaps I am unfamiliar with customs from other places," she says, calmly, "but I thought it was necessary for an overture or offer to be given first before the rejection may happen."

Oh. Right. And Brooke seems to have gotten her customs mixed up as well. The main question is if she should cark it now, or wait until after Inge throws a drink in her face and walks out.

Inge takes a sip and purses her lips slightly in dissatisfaction. "So I cannot reject you or-- what is the term, break up with you, since we are not in a relationship, nor have you asked something I can reject you from."

"That's true," Brooke says feebly.

"Of course, I suppose we can work something out. After all, I would not want to hold you back from whoever it is you are planning to skip off to next. Who is it, anyway? Please do me the courtesy of saying so."

"What?"

"You seem to have given this a lot of thought." Which, well, yes, Brooke has, but not in the way that Inge seems to be implying, and Inge is still talking and not looking at her. "Is it Amanda? Or Tara? You seem to have certain things in common with both of them, in your chosen stroke and such. Did you come to an agreement with one of them lately?"

Brooke is, quite frankly, incredulous that Inge is not quite as calm and unattached as she thought. Inge keeps her eyes down, frowns, and is tearing the tops off sugar packets with deadly intensity, dumping them absently in her glass. One of the empty packets is being utterly shredded now between Inge's fingers. Brooke makes as though to lean forward but then thinks better of it as the confetti-bits of packet suddenly get scattered.

"There are jokes made about the breaststroke, yes?" Inge continues, rather savagely stirring her iced tea, hard enough that a little cyclone of undissolved sugar crystals is swirling in the bottom of it. It rather resembles Brooke's thoughts at the moment. "I am sure you will find out if they have any basis or not."

"No, that's not it at all."

"Oh, perhaps it is someone else from your team? Jodie, is it? Or perhaps someone younger, the girl they say you have the rivalry with? Leisel? I would like to know how many years younger the person you are dropping me for is." Her accent becomes more pronounced with each word.

"I'm not-- you can't-- _Leisel?_ I mean, of course not! I'm not dropping you for someone who's ten years younger. That's absurd."

"Of course not, she's twelve years younger. I believe I know my own age, Brooke. Very well, I see how this is."

"But I'm not! You've got it wrong!"

A new voice breaks in. "Inge? Er, Brooke?"

And fate must just love kicking Brooke around because here's Amanda standing just a few feet away looking poised, perfect, and more than a little curious. And goddamnit, everything on her lunch tray is healthier than what's on Brooke's.

"Amanda?" Inge asks, and her pleasant-face snaps back on, which should really make Brooke feel better because at least it's not a secret-lover-take-me-away-from-this-argument look, but Brooke doesn't actually reckon anything could make her feel better. Ever. Well, maybe the cake. Which she can't eat now without looking like a pig.

"Hi." Amanda smiles, a little cautiously. "I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

"No, not at all," Inge says, and Brooke restricts herself to a quick headshake and stares at her Pepsi bottle.

Amanda smiles a little more naturally. "Anyhow, I was talking to a Speedo rep about twenty minutes ago, and they said that if I saw you, I should mention the photoshoot's been moved to nine instead of seven. And Michael found his suit after all, so he said to say thank you for checking with Pieter. I think you scared him a bit at the picnic, otherwise he'd say it himself."

"Oh, it was no trouble," Inge assures her. "Where did it turn up?"

Amanda rolls her eyes. "Where do you think? I told him that they really need to pick one dormitory to screw around in, but he said the Australian ones have better air conditioning or something. God, I wish I was nineteen again and had half that energy."

And isn't _that_ an interesting little bit of information to hold onto. Brooke is so caught by imagining the look on Ian's face for when she chooses to divulge this that she nearly misses the fact Amanda has turned her attention away from Inge and is speaking to her.

"Come again?" Brooke says. "Sorry, I'm a bit zonked."

"I just wanted to say that I've been looking for you all day. I wanted to congratulate you again for that great race since I didn't get the chance to really talk to you afterwards. You really tore up the pool and it was an honor to race with you."

"Oh," Brooke says, caught off guard and a bit weakly. "No worries. Thank you. You and Tara really make me work for it. And congratulations are in order for you too aren't they?" She tries to sketch a medal shape with her right hand, realizes she's still holding her fork, and puts it down. "I mean, you've been incredible. I'm really looking forward to short-courses."

"Can't wait," Amanda says, and offers her hand and a brilliantly friendly smile. They shake hands. She really has a very nice smile; Brooke's always thought so. And a nice body. And personality. No wonder she did modeling. Hard to believe anyone could dislike her.

After letting go, Brooke hesitates, and then figures she might as well get the dirt while she can. "Lost bathers?"

Amanda readjusts the grip on her tray and snorts. "God, you should have seen him flipping out. Seriously, I don't know how either of you get any sleep, if they're half as loud where you are."

"He asked at the Speedo picnic," Inge says dismissively. "I told him he should keep better track of such things, even if he is always stepping out of them. Especially then. I believe he was afraid they would show up on eBay. Or possibly, one of the dormitory flagpoles."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Amanda says, and steps away. "He's over there, actually. I think I'll go give him a hard time. Take care, both of you."

Brooke watches her go, and follows the line of her path to where she can indeed see a rather petrified looking Michael Phelps as Amanda advances, like a mouse cornered by a cat. It's enough to make her want to start giggling, a bit like a panic reaction, but Inge's pleasant-face has slipped off into some utterly unknown expression that makes Brooke shut up and stare anywhere else.

"So," Inge says after a short pause. "I am slightly confused. I am thinking that perhaps you do not want to get rid of me after all."

"Yes," Brooke says fervently. "I'm sorry, I'm a complete dipstick, I just--" She's trying to properly articulate herself; it's not working. "I'm not trying to get rid of you, I thought you were trying to get rid of me and so I figured I should. You know. I false-started a bit. A lot."

"I see," Inge says, and her tone is very matter of fact as she stares at some unseen point over Brooke's left shoulder. It's the exact voice she uses towards the press when asked to comment on something very obvious, or when stating a fact that has had to be given over and over again. She sips her tea absently, grimaces, and sets it down. She picks up her fork again and taps it against the side of her plate, twice. "Well. I suppose that doesn't change things."

Brooke's heart sinks. "Yes."

"You know what to do then."

"Yes?"

"After all, it is the only thing to do."

"Yes!" That tone of Inge's seemed to call for a little more affirmation. It would take a far braver-- or far stupider-- person than Brooke is to contradict anything Inge is saying at the moment.

Inge leans forward-- Brooke closes her eyes briefly and braces herself to be the first Olympic athlete ever to be killed with a dining hall fork; at least she'll go down in history for _something_\-- but she looks down just in time to see a flash of the silver tines before they sink deeply into the icing of the cake. Inge neatly maneuvers the bit of cake onto her fork and pops it in her mouth. She chews four times, swallows, and looks back at Brooke.

"So, you may proposition me at any time now."

"I… may?"

"Well," Inge says slowly and kindly as her fork sneaks out and does further damage to Brooke's cake, "if you would like to break up with or otherwise reject me, we will have to be in some kind of a relationship or intend to have another encounter first. If we want to be in a relationship or have another encounter, you will have to actually ask me to do so. That way, we can have a relationship from which you can depart."

"But I don't _want_\--" Inge raises an eyebrow; Brooke breathes in, breathes out, and tries again. "Just to make sure we're on the same page, are you asking me to ask you out, as in, right now?"

"Yes."

"But the rejection bit isn't mandatory?"

"You cannot actually reject me or I you, unless you ask me to do something in the first place. After that, it is entirely up to you. And I am free until nine."

"Oh. Okay." Brooke picks up her fork carefully between thumb and forefinger, and cuts off a bite of cake for herself. If she were any good at all, she'd have a poem or something witty ready for this occasion. "All right."

There are athletes from at least twenty different countries surrounding them, a good many of who would be ogling Inge or anything female in the first place, let alone wondering why Inge and Brooke are leaning so close together. This is a public place and not at all the best setting for declarations of love and fidelity. Inge flicks her tongue out to catch a bit of chocolate frosting on her lower lip and Brooke feels something turn over inside her.

"Will you come back to my room with me?" she asks, and she speaks so quickly that the words blur a bit, but they feel just as good as the chocolate cake tastes, rich and silky-sweet and spreading across her tongue.

"Yes," Inge says.

And that, frankly, is even better.


End file.
